a still life of platonic passion

Will you tell me what fills you with milk,

show me the delicate pink muscle of your lungs,

reveal your neurons like coral in your skull?

Will you expose the papier-mâché of your bones,

give me your soft, beaten hands,

will you let me touch the bruises on your knees?

May I fold your feet into woolen socks,

brush the matted hairs on the back of your neck,

oil the rust of your vocal chords?

Privacy is no constitutional right, but I forget you breathe it.


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